Corpse Disposal
by acf151
Summary: A reason the Winchester Boys hate camping.


Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the WB. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.

Authored by : acf151

e-mail: Corpse Disposal 101

Genre: Horror

Rating: R (just in case)

Pairing: None

Spoilers: None

Warnings: Grisly themes. Serial killer

Summary: When disposing of a corpse with young Dean and Sam, John Winchester happens upon a different kind of monster.

Corpse Disposal 101

Dawn. Good. We're packed into the truck. One thing's for certain. There is no way I can leave this mutilated corpse this close to the road. Okay. I'll take it off into these trees, dig the silver bullet out, make a hole, salt, burn and bury it.

"Dean, reload the shotgun. Sammy, grab an extra sweater and a poncho." The 10-year old kid was shivering. "Ready? Sammy, got your .45? Good. Dean, I need you to keep an eye out for me while I'm digging. Sammy, grab the other shovel. When we leave, try not to smear the runes. Just in case."

Got the rifle. Knife. Okay, this will be fine. I can't leave the boys in the truck, protective circle or not, there's likely to be more of 'em. Thank God I don't have to tell either of them to be quiet. Dean's old enough to handle the shotgun and he'll watch Sammy. Got an arm, rifle – strap's secure, shovel. Let's go.

John Winchester proceeded to drag the corpse off the trail and into the woods. All of them were on alert, ears pricked for animalian silence, shuffled leaves, anything to betray an attack.

"Dad." Dean's voice was just quiet enough for only John and Sammy to hear. His feet made almost no sound as he moved to shield Sammy from the stranger's line of fire. John dropped shovel and arm as he brought his rifle to bear on the intruder. Dean had already sighted down.

The slight man stepped out from a tangle of poison ivy five yards to our side. He wore boxers and a shirt, but no pants. A white, inexpertly manicured hand lay cold under a thin scattering of leaves behind him. He gripped the bloody hunting knife in one hand, raised uncertainly, now that he was faced with two long range weapons. The man's eyes went from John, to the brutally eviscerated corpse, to the boys, the incongruity baffling even to a serial killer.

No one spoke. Scanning the periphery out of the corners of my eyes, Sammy is watching the woods. Dean had him turned so his back touched his. Dean's body is shielding Sam's from view. He would know where Sam was at all times, no matter how this played out. Okay.

You are not going to hurt my sons. That's right, look at me. No.

He's clearly uncomfortable. Can't keep still. Not looking in my eyes, but he's not looking at the boys. Good. He seems to have settled on the corpse. Interesting.

"Ground's almost frozen this time of year. Soil's r-rocky. What'd he do for you?"

My disgust with this scum is probably the reason my finger tightened on the trigger. How dare he suggest that I am anything like him. He's really nervous now. He's the type that will break. He can't stand the tension. He'll act. Which of us would he jump first? I'm the bigger threat but the boys are two feet closer. I don't want Dean to shoot him.

He should leave and bury his kill later. No matter what he is, he doesn't deserve one of these monsters. The hand had a plastic charm bracelet trapped under it. The kind Mary looked at when she had dreamed of a little girl. No. He deserves a monster.

His eyes can't watch me anymore; they swing to Dean, looking at the shotgun, trying to peer behind him. Dean is looking at the square of black check that rests over this bastard's heart. I don't want Dean to shoot him.

"It's dangerous out here." That tone. Did that tone truly come from me?

His eyes swing directly to mine, and the hand holding the knife begins to shake. The shaking spreads to his body and he stumbles back, over the girl, into the holly and the ivy. On the far side, he comes up, red and bleeding.

He gives me one last look before breaking and running, fast, crying a little as he goes. Wheezing. The scent of living blood trails behind him.

In the periphery, shadows circle, far from us, and pursue.

I pick up the shovel, keeping the rifle firmly to my shoulder and walk it over to Sammy. He takes it. Two handfuls of salt tossed over the body to satisfy the binding. It's a precaution anyway. Dean pours lighter fluid from the bottle he had in his pocket. He's still keeping the shotgun to his shoulder, his right hand moving under the gun.

They move back. Sammy has both shovels over one shoulder, one hand holding his .45. He's good with that gun. Dean is scanning around, and keeping his brother just behind him.

There's a choked scream, and some wailing coming from the west. Not far enough off. The hunting bellow sounds through the forest, echoing through the trees.

Flick. The crackle of sulfur stops, as the whoosh of flame rises from the monster's corpse.

I'll sacrifice the silver. It's time to go.

My sons know how to run. They go softly, quietly, and still manage to keep their eyes on the shadowy trees. Back to the truck. I cover our flank. Before I leave the clearing, I glance back at that hand. A young hand, still cold and dead on the forest floor. The glint of plastic catches some of the glow of the fire which has now spread to the surrounding leaves.

The boys are ahead. It's time to go.

Nothing was left in the circle. We head directly back to the truck. Dean stops Sammy twenty feet away, waiting for me to check it. None of us will forget the time we didn't.

Taking a shovel from Sammy, letting the rifle fall on it's strap, I run the blade under the truck, hoping to catch anything hiding under it. The tarp is quickly lifted, ascertained and replaced with the shovels now under it. A quick circle of the vehicle turns up nothing. Unlocking the passenger side, nothing's under or behind the seats or in the glove box. Nothing on the driver's side.

A chill runs up my spine. There is no performance by the birds this morning. We have not seen one squirrel.

Sammy gets in first and belts in. Then Dean, putting the shotgun in the cab's gun rack, moves his knife to a more accessible position. I go around back.

My hand just touches the handle, keys in hand when the second bellow splits the silence. It's time to go.


End file.
